Rolls
The carriage rolled down through the dense foliage and greenery. Golden rays of sunlight bathed the entire forest in mystical brilliance—it was quite calming. He simply sat there, taking deep breaths and releasing them slowly, not wanting to disturb his mind with unnecessary thoughts.
He now finally understood what the keeper had meant when he said all he required of Larson were his memories. At first, when he had received Larson's memories, he had been certain he was Larson himself. But now, thinking more deeply about it, Larson as an entity probably no longer existed. He had been broken—broken by countless iterations, broken by the constant hurt he was forced to endure even at his lowest. He had been no more than a teenager when it all started, yet was forced to endure life at its cruelest. With time, the boy could no longer smile. He was haunted by his past, haunted by a love he had rejected that became his ultimate nightmare, haunted by that cursed woman who had killed herself before him.
He sighed.
In a way, he was Larson now. After all, he possessed all of Larson's memories. He remembered everything. He might not yet fully understand why Larson had been tormented to accumulate all these cursed memories he now inherited, but if there was one thing he was certain they made him feel, it was hatred. This hatred for divine beings, this loathing for hypocrites who called themselves gods, this hatred for order, this hatred for the favored ones—those blessed by fate to always outshine everyone else. The greatest hypocrites of existence, who would forever be seen as the good guys, no matter what atrocities they committed.
He hated them all, and perhaps that had been Larson's motive from the very beginning. But why? What did the keeper want from him? Come to think of it, he was in many ways like Larson. He had lost everything before he could appreciate it, thrown from grace in no more than a day—a noble turned slave. Scorned and mocked all his life, growing with this absurd hatred and obsession.
He laughed bitterly.
Even Anderson—the person he now inhabited—was no different. Mocked for his lack of talent and physique, he had become the laughing stock of his noble house. Even his own mother had never seen him as anything worthwhile. The boy had never been loved from the beginning, and with time, he had given up trying to earn recognition he would never attain, as even fate worked against him.
Now, with all these memories collapsed into one being, all he felt was... nothing. Strange—he felt so much anger for everything that he no longer felt anything at all.
He sighed again.
But he still had this strange drive—like the combined will of every person he had become.
To end it all.
To watch the world burn, to stand before the keeper with a sword plunged through his head. He didn't want to be seen as a hero; he didn't want to be a stepping stone. He wanted to be... the good guy.
No.
He wanted to be hated, just as he hated everything.
He wanted this world—and even others—to know the pain that insignificant beings were made to endure because they lacked the favor of some higher entity.
He wanted everyone to know the story of Larson, Lumiea, and even Anderson.
He had been passed down these burdens along with the memories of their lives. The pain—that gut-wrenching pain—the inequality, the desire to be loved that had turned into a need to be acknowledged, the resignation to the inevitable.
All he really wanted now was revenge.
"Where are we headed?" he asked calmly, still staring out the carriage window.
"A secluded mansion in a certain part of this forest," she replied, and he sighed.
"Why are you here? I should be stripped of all privileges of nobility, and that includes my possession of a maid," he said. All he wanted at this point was to be left alone to think. He could never understand how Larson had survived through all those iterations with these memories. So much tragedy—it should break anyone, even the toughest of men. But Larson had endured it all until the end, in each iteration always harboring that hidden desire for a good life, a quiet life where he would be loved and could let go of all the chains that bound him. But cruel was fate... and the keeper.
"I go wherever my master goes," he heard her say, and turned to look at her.
"You are not to step into that mansion with me. Return to the main estate—that's an order." He looked back at the window. Though the cool air helped calm him, it did nothing about the heaviness in his chest. It was too much for just one person to bear. In a way, he wanted to cry. That might have helped, though it had never helped Larson—the tears had only made the pain worse.
"I cannot leave my master alone," she said, but he paid her no mind, simply closed his eyes and let the calming sensation ease some of the weight... not that it would make any real difference.